


Light in the Darkness

by prototyping



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Caretaking, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships, Technically an AU, but I like to think it's within the limits of canon, cw: light torture, genfic, i'd apologize but i'd be lying, my whumper nature came out big time in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 21:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14656542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: What if Heldalf had taken a more direct approach in attempting to corrupt Sorey? [Sorey, Mikleo.]





	Light in the Darkness

Mikleo awoke to a cold chill, a throbbing headache, and the bitter taste of blood and bile. For a moment he was at a loss, confused by the darkness clouding his sight and the aches rippling over his body, but then his memory came flooding back and he reflexively tensed. That made some of his cuts and bruises throb worse, but it served to rouse him the rest of the way and after a few more seconds he forced himself to sit up.

His head swam and his vision tilted dangerously. His left eye was so blurred it was nearly useless, but that was to be expected after the beating he’d taken on that side of his face. It still hurt to touch. Added onto his injuries from before were now a sore back and stiff shoulders, courtesy of the dirty stone floor. His stomach was still twisted in knots, both nauseous and uneasy at the thick curtain of malevolence that hung around him.

He picked himself up and turned slowly in place, examining his surroundings, but nothing had changed. The small room was still bare, still stone on all sides, still empty aside from himself -- which he knew to be grateful for, at least to an extent.

Closing his eyes, Mikleo focused. It was difficult to sense anything in a domain this heavy, but there was something to be said about light in the darkness: it was definitely still there, still beating, still alive. He let out the breath he’d been holding, daring to feel relieved. Sorey was… well, Mikleo wasn’t sure if he was really _alright_ , but he was definitely still breathing. Close enough for Mikleo to sense him, but too far to return to him. At this distance, the protection Sorey offered him as a vessel was stretched thin; he didn’t doubt it was the cause of the sick feeling in his gut, as well as the substantial loss of power in his artes. The malevolence wasn’t a threat to his health, not yet, but he was willing to bet the set-up was very much intentional.

That, in turn, brought up the question of why Mikleo was still alive. He’d arrived at the only possible answer hours ago -- days? He wasn’t sure how long he’d been here. -- and it unnerved him in a way very few things did.

Shoving those thoughts aside once again, he flexed his fingers with a wince, and then rotated each shoulder, testing his mobility. A lot of scrapes and bruises and fatigue, but nothing worth expending his energy and mana on. Nothing that would hinder him from fighting back when the time came.

Exhaling sharply, he looked at the only way out of the area: an open doorway and, shortly beyond it, a steep staircase leading upward. Innocuous enough at first glance, but by now he knew better. Instead of heading towards it, he moved to the opposite side of the room to examine the wall there. He ran his fingers along the heavy stones that formed it, but he quickly decided there weren’t any leads to be found. No switches, no trick doors, no loose stones, no anything. There wasn’t even a window; the only light came from the torches mounted on either side of the doorway. Combined with the heavy malevolence, most of the room was cast in shadow. This cell was a dead end of the worst kind, likely created for the purpose of making its prisoner feel as isolated and worn down as possible.

The air was so dark and thick that Mikleo almost missed the subtle ripple in the air, the slight shift in atmosphere. Almost.

“Mikleo.”

After such a long stretch of isolation, the sudden voice startled him. Mikleo whirled around, shoulders tense--

“Sorey?” Even his own voice sounded strange to his ears. He hadn’t used it much since being thrown in here.

His friend smiled at him from the doorway, looking none the worse for wear. “Hey! Glad to see you’re okay -- well, you’ve definitely seen better days, huh.” When Mikleo didn’t respond, Sorey scratched the back of his head. “What’s up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

After a few more moments, Mikleo relented his hard stare and glanced aside -- but his shoulders remained taut and he otherwise didn’t budge. “Not exactly,” he said stiffly. “But you sure took your time. I thought you’d turn up a lot sooner.”

“Y-Yeah, sorry about that.” Sorey started towards him and Mikleo had to quell the urge to scowl and step back. He refrained, but his fists tightened at his sides. Sorey paused a couple yards short as he noticed his expression. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. I’m just…” With a hard flick of his wrist, Mikleo summoned his staff and in the same motion swung it hard at Sorey’s head.

In a movement that was very _not_ -Sorey, the other boy jerked his head back and narrowly avoided the blow. The cold smile that immediately cut across his face was equally out-of-place, as was his mocking tone. “That’s some way to treat your friends. No wonder I’ve left you here to rot instead of running to your rescue.”

Mikleo brought his weapon back around to grip it in both hands now. “Where is he?” he snapped.

Sorey snorted, his voice twisting into something too barbed and patronizing to ever pass for the real thing. “Isn’t it _your_ job to know that?” In a blink he drew his sword and swung in the same motion, swiftly closing the distance between them, but it was easy to intercept and Mikleo caught the dull blade on his staff just as quickly, his expression icy.

“I know he’s alive. Why?”

Sorey gave a hard shove to break the stalemate, but Mikleo used the backwards momentum to put more distance between them. His casting, while quick, was a beat slower than usual: it took more effort than it should have, a level of intense concentration that he hadn’t needed since childhood. Sorey leaped backwards to dodge the pillars of water that erupted from the ground, but dashed forward as soon as the arte was finished. Mikleo braced himself for another attack, but as their weapons clashed he went on the offensive this time. There was a brief flurry of blows before they parted again, with Mikleo already looking more worn down. Even if the malevolence couldn’t harm him directly, he found the weight of the atmosphere detrimental all the same, having been this far from his vessel for this long.

“Enough games, Symmone. What do you want?”

Sorey sneered at him again before suddenly disappearing in a dull glimmer of light. “Why do you ask questions to which you know you’ll receive no satisfactory answer?” asked a familiar voice behind him. Mikleo whirled around to find Symmone smiling unpleasantly at him. She was unarmed and unassuming in appearance, as always, but those dark eyes glinted with a whole different level of danger. “You reject my lord, you reject our vision… Your reason for being here would be met with the same stubborn sense of self-righteousness, no?” She cocked her head with a shrug. “Besides, I don’t want to spoil it for you. You don’t have to wait much longer.”

His glare narrowed further. Then what had that been, just now? Surely she would know -- she could fool his eyes with Sorey’s appearance, but not his other senses. She couldn’t duplicate Sorey’s domain, least of all to someone bound to him as Sub Lord. Was she just messing with him? Or had it been something else, like a--

_\--Distraction--_

He detected the familiar, unmistakable presence at the same time that a sound of grinding metal shrieked behind him, like a rusty gate opening. It was followed by a thump and a growl, and then a low cry and a series of thuds. Mikleo risked a glance over his shoulder to see a figure tumble unceremoniously down the stairs and land in a heap on the floor. It immediately began to rise, pushing himself up onto his hands through sheer will alone, judging by the pained tremble in his arms--

“Sorey!”

There was no doubt in his mind that this was the real one -- and that realization was an effective distraction in itself. Something struck Mikleo hard in the back of the head, making him reel, and then the backs of his knees to knock him forward. He’d barely hit the ground when his arms were seized and wrenched behind him, his staff ripped from his fingers. His head was jerked back and held there, forcing him to stare up at the low ceiling as the stones bit into his knees.

“Mikleo--!” There were sounds of scuffling and movement, suggesting Sorey was given the same treatment. In a voice strained and heated, he started, “Luzrov--!” but was cut off in a choke, followed by another thud.

“Oh, no, we don’t want you opening that mouth of yours, Shepherd.” In the corner of his eye Mikleo watched Symonne step up beside him, now tapping her baton against her shoulder. “Even the lead character is just one part of the director’s grand vision. It would be a shame if you spoiled this act’s ending.” Her heavy gaze trailed slowly sideways to fix on Mikleo. “Not when he’s gone to so much trouble to prepare.”

“It’s hardly surprising that you’ve kept us alive this long for a _reason,_ ” Mikleo quipped. “What’s Heldalf after?” He was permitted to turn his head just enough to look at her properly -- he still couldn’t tell who or what was restraining him -- and in response Symonne merely stretched her smirk into a grin, right before she turned and slammed her baton across his exposed throat.

For a harrowing moment he couldn’t breathe. The impulse to double over was denied as he was held in place, stressing his neck further, and he could only cough and gasp around the air trapped in his throat. She hit him again, this time across the face. He heard his skin tear, felt the hot touch of blood, but they were background noise compared to the mounting panic in his chest as his lungs began to burn.

Suddenly he was shoved forward until his spine was parallel with the floor, still on his knees and held in place. His throat continued to ache, but breathing was easier and he did so, rapidly and hoarsely. Blood dripped from his open cheek onto his shadow below. He heard a muffled sound and craned his neck to look up.

Sorey was also being held on his knees, flanked on either side by two tall, bipedal lizard hellions. Those were real, Mikleo could tell by their auras, separate from Symonne’s illusions. This place had to be getting its malevolence from somewhere, and she was probably using them -- along with others -- to keep the atmosphere particularly thick down here.

Sorey looked terrible: a gash over one eyebrow had bled heavily before caking itself closed as it dried, his face bore numerous cuts and bruises, one lip looked busted and swollen, and he was holding himself at an awkward angle as if to keep weight off of his right side. The front of his Shepherd’s mantle was dotted and smeared with bloodstains. He had been gagged, a dark cloth twisted and forced between his teeth, and he was paler than Mikleo had ever seen him. Even at this distance, it was obvious he was soaked with sweat.

They’d made a mess of him, and yet Mikleo noticed that he still wore his sword at his side. They hadn’t disarmed him?

Symonne’s boots clicked on stone as she drew up beside Mikleo again, but her weapon hung idle and loose in her hand. “Does this anger you, Shepherd?” she asked casually. “Let me ask you: what’s the difference between my doing this--” In a blink she twirled her baton around in her grip and stabbed it down into the back of Mikleo’s left shoulder. He flinched, grunted, but choked his voice down out of nothing other than spite. Just as quickly, Symonne yanked it free, and he wasn’t sure which hurt worse. “--and this?”

Sorey watched as she spun about in a pirouette and struck one of the tiger hellions holding Mikleo. Unlike her previous blows, this one channeled seraphic power and knocked the creature across the room and into the far wall. It crumpled to the floor in an unresponsive heap -- where it shimmered and faded. An illusion.

Symonne turned back to him with her usual dismissive smile, noting his face -- or more specifically his lack of a reaction, unlike the way he had tensed each time she struck Mikleo. “Such an easy answer, isn’t it? You _care_ about one, so it’s ‘wrong’ when I hurt him. But if I attack a hellion, I’m doing something ‘normal.’ Something ‘good.’ ” Her flippant tone hardened on those last few words, her easygoing expression darkening into a glare. “Such a simplistic, ignorant world you live in. But it looks quite fragile, as well. I wonder how quickly that snow-globe heart of yours would crack if I, say…” Without looking away from Sorey, she pointed her baton towards Mikleo, its pointed tip inches away from his temple. “...gouged out one of these pretty eyes of his?”

Sorey lunged forward, his face twisting with the snarled objection that the gag muted, but the hellions held fast and he only succeeded in agitating his shoulder further. His spine went rigid as waves of paralyzing heat spread up his arm and through his chest, tightening it until he could barely breathe.

Symonne giggled as she lowered her weapon. “Oh, don’t worry. You still have a ways to go, so I don’t want to make him _completely_ useless…. Well, unless you have an understudy prepared to replace him as soon as he’s of no use to you -- just like that wind seraph.” Sorey met her gaze evenly. “Or is this one different?” she mused. “Does even the holy, purehearted Shepherd put one friend over another? Does he judge their worth by his own feelings? Oh, I wish we could have invited more of your little band here -- I wonder whose screams would tear you apart the--”

“If you’re going to hit me again, get on with it,” said Mikleo dryly. His voice sounded off, thinner than usual, but his disdain came through just fine. “It’s better than listening to you ramble on like this.” He didn’t so much as flinch when she turned to him.

“Such bravado…” With a wave of her baton, the remaining hellion gripping Mikleo shifted and warped, changing shape and shrinking, thinning, into a long chain that snaked around his wrist and up his arm, across to the other, and bound his hands tightly behind his back. “All for his sake? The love between family must be such a _precious_ thing.” Symonne’s sarcasm matched his as she squatted down in front of him, watching his face. She touched the blood-soaked tip of her baton to the underside of his jaw, and Sorey saw him tense despite his fixed expression. As it dragged slowly over his throat and left a thin trail of red, flirting with his carotid artery, Symonne purred, “But your eyes give you away, boy. You’re afraid.”

She rocked back on her heels, batting his chin lightly in a patronizing gesture before she withdrew her touch. “But the more you try to hide it--” Again her fingers twirled in a blur and this time the baton was plunged into Mikleo’s thigh. His whole body convulsed and he jerked forward, exhaling harshly with a gritted-teeth growl. Symonne leaned under him to catch his eye. “...the harder I’ll work to rip it out of you.”

She left the weapon where it was as she stood, her painted nails ghosting up across his uninjured cheek as she stepped around him. He jerked away from her. “As far as this show’s concerned, you’re little more than a prop at worst, a plot device at best,” she told him airily. “So stop trying to be the hero, and play your part like you’re _supposed_ to.” She stood at his side now, and Sorey had an unobstructed view when she grasped her baton and twisted it. Mikleo winced with a throaty cough, but still withheld his voice for the most part.

_“Symonne!”_ Sorey’s muffled outburst was ignored.

“Oh, that’s no good,” she said with a sigh. “You need to put some life into your performance. After all, using a prop too much might cause it to break.” She placed her palm on the head of her weapon and leaned on it. As the shaft sank deeper into his leg, Mikleo’s tongue was finally loosened in a strangled, breathless cry. It wasn’t loud, but what it lacked in volume it made up in undeniable misery.

Symonne smiled. “Better.” The air nearby flickered and twisted as two more figures appeared, illusory copies of herself. For the moment they only stood in place, but Sorey’s sense of dread doubled. His mind was practically humming as his thoughts raced, desperately trying to think of any other direction this could go in, any other reason there could be for this set-up, anything he could do to stop it. But Symonne was offering no ultimatum, asking for no input. It was very clear that each boy served a separate purpose, and given his last confrontation with Heldalf, he already knew what they were.

The real Symonne knelt behind Mikleo. She was a head shorter than he, small and non-threatening at face value, but to Sorey she had never looked more dangerous than she did right then.

“I’m not usually the type to dirty my hands directly,” she went on indifferently, “but we all have a role to play, and this time?” She slipped her arms over Mikleo’s shoulders and braced her baton across the front of his neck, forcing his head back, all while holding Sorey’s gaze. “I’m the major antagonist, the kind of villain the audience loves to hate. So enjoy the front-row seat, Shepherd, and hate me with everything you have.” Her grip tightened, making Mikleo hiss between his teeth as he tried to breathe. “This performance _is_ for you, after all.”

“Sorey,” Mikleo strained hastily, “I’ll be fine, don’t--” Another Symonne lunged forward and wrapped her hand around the top of his throat as the glow of a seraphic arte illuminated her fingers. Mikleo flinched and tried to twist away, but he was held firmly in place. He shut his eyes tight, panting harshly as small trails of smoke began to waft from Symonne’s hand. It took nearly half a minute for him to cry out, but the sound was more angry than pained. He was writhing now, fighting hard against the hands and chains that bound him, but he was outnumbered and outmatched. Symonne didn’t let go until she chose to, what felt like an age later, withdrawing her hand to leave the skin of Mikleo’s neck bright red and blistered with burns.

_“Stop it!”_ Sorey’s words were unintelligible, but the emotion behind the sounds surely made his message obvious. “Symonne! He has nothing to do with this!” He winced as she hit Mikleo again. The blunt end of her baton opened his lower lip and smeared blood across his chin, dark and thick like a heavy-handed brushstroke. Like grisly paint on a living canvas.

It seemed to go on forever. Mikleo was hit, kicked, stabbed, cut, choked, burned with heat, burned with cold -- but he held out as well as he was able. He didn’t once look scared, but only answered every wound with the same frigid glare. He swallowed his voice even when it cost him worse injuries, with only the most painful inflications managing to tear it out of him. He didn’t beg or demand that she stop -- but Sorey did. He wore his fear openly, he continued to fight the gag smothering his voice, he pleaded and threatened until his mouth was dry. He counted every blow, every mark left, every sound of pain, knowing they would stick with him forever but refusing to look away. He struggled against his captors, the fresh pain in his shoulder sparking new, desperate energy to keep on yelling. He was ignored.

By the time it was over, and Mikleo was dropped -- discarded -- on the floor, Sorey’s throat was raw. His gag was removed, but he barely had any voice left and no words to give, anyway. He was allowed to slump forward, the iron grips on his arms releasing, but other than the agony that it caused to flare in his shoulder, he barely noticed.

He heard Symonne speak, but he didn’t listen. He knew what she wanted, what her intentions were, what she expected him to do next. Part of him -- most of him -- wanted him to do it, too. A rare, smoldering, aching anger burned somewhere deep inside him, threatening to engulf his shock and concern and guilt and leave nothing but rage. It wanted to draw his blade -- the blade she had very intentionally let him keep -- and strike down everything in the room that still stood. It wanted to hurt them, hurt _her._

But it wouldn’t change anything. Even if Sorey paid them back for every injury, and then some, it wouldn’t help Mikleo. It wouldn’t turn back time, it wouldn’t undo what had happened, it wouldn’t help him forget what he’d gone through.

Those thoughts reined in Sorey’s emotions a little at a time. Negativity still swirled in his head, his chest, his heart, making it hard to breathe or even think straight, but he held firmly onto his conviction: lashing out would help no one. On the contrary, he would be playing right into the enemy’s hands. He would be betraying what he believed in, and that would ultimately cost Mikleo much more than bruises and blood.

When he finally spoke -- minutes, hours later, he couldn’t have said -- it was to the battered seraph.

“Mikleo…” Sorey’s voice was tired, taut, thick, and shaking -- but the tone in it was firm. “Sorry, but I… I’ll need you to…” His left fist clenched weakly. His lack of strength had nothing to do with his own cuts and bruises, or even his lack of sleep, or the malevolence. He looked up through his bangs and found Mikleo looking back at him. His harsh breaths sounded painful and looked labored, his normally sharp and observant eyes now distant and glassy, and he wasn’t even trying to rise. But he nodded, once, lightly. He understood. It made Sorey feel even worse -- for asking more of him, for leaning on him even now.

As his bloody mouth moved to form the words, Sorey resisted an angry shiver. It felt wrong, saying it like this -- speaking the name that had been entrusted to him when they were kids, still too young and naive at the time to understand the weight that a True Name carried. For the first time he felt unworthy of it, undeserving of that level of trust and friendship.

The guilt and anger and regret gave him pause for all of a second.

_“Luzrov Rulay.”_

It was quiet, croaked, and lacking the confidence and power that he usually spoke it with.

But it was enough.

As many times as Sorey had Armatized by now, the sensation still made his breath catch and his heart skip a beat. He wasn’t sure he would ever truly get used to the feeling of raw, surging power funneling into him, foreign and terrible but at the same time familiar and carefully controlled. Each seraph felt different, and in Mikleo’s case he was a cool, calming, all-encompassing aura of discipline and keen awareness. It always reminded Sorey of stormy nights back in Elysia, of lying awake and listening to the rain lash at his windows, finding his dry home and warm bed that much more comfortable and reassuring because of it.

Except now he _was_ the storm. His body buzzed with power the same way the air would hum long before the rain started. Instead of thunder, there was the firm beat of their joined hearts. And behind the impending rain lurked the potential -- the _threat_ \-- of something else: something cold and sharp and harsh like hail.

And Mikleo was his shelter, his reassuring warmth, his comfortable familiarity, his shield against that otherwise intimidating power. He was the thin glass through which Sorey observed nature’s awesome might in action -- because in truth, Sorey was simply an instrument, an outlet, a conduit for Mikleo’s strength. Sorey wielded the power of water, but only through his friend’s grace and with his permission. It was a force that would have overwhelmed him, drowned him, destroyed him on its own, but Mikleo tamed it with ease, filtering and shaping it into a form he could use.

Not for the first time, Sorey marveled that so much power could be contained in a living body -- especially in one as casually familiar and modest as his best friend’s. It seemed as though the more he learned about seraphim, the wider the gap between the two races became.

As he flooded Sorey’s body and mind with his spirit and force, Mikleo spoke three silent, simple words: _I’ll do it_. Had it been anyone else, Sorey would have hesitated, even if just slightly, but that short phrase was all the convincing he needed. He relinquished control entirely -- of their powers, of his body -- and felt Mikleo assume it as quickly and naturally as offering a helping hand.

Normally, in the roles of Armatization, when all was said and done the human was merely the vehicle, the seraph the power source. Sorey was the bow, Mikleo was both the arrow and the hand that drew the string.

Now, Mikleo was all three.

Their right arm was useless, but in a space this small, a bow wasn’t all that necessary, anyway. Mikleo rounded on the hellions behind them and fired off an arte left-handed, gritting their teeth against the stress it put on their injured shoulder. He stumbled to their feet as the hellions recovered and rushed forward, another blast of water knocking them backwards, but his attention was already shifting sideways to Symonne. There was only one of her now, and she met their blazing stare with a small smirk, her hands joined idly behind her back. She was open and at ease as if simply waiting, undeterred by the hand stretched -- and hesitating -- in her direction.

Perhaps Mikleo made the same realization that Sorey did right then, because he let their arm drop and relaxed slightly -- not letting down his guard, but making it clear he had no interest in fighting. “Show’s over, right?” he snapped. “Or did you have anything else to say?”

Symonne frowned when it was Mikleo’s voice that came through, her eyes narrowing in either irritation or contemplation or both. “Hm,” she hummed sharply. “Too good for your anger, Shepherd? Or too weak?”

In a blink their hand was up again and water blasted from their palm, steaming and -- intentionally -- missing Symonne by inches. Unlike Sorey’s simmering emotions, Mikleo’s agitation felt like a shard of ice lodged in their chest. He had only missed for Sorey’s sake, surely, but his patience was nonexistent at this point.

Symonne didn’t so much as flinch. After a moment she closed her eyes, sighed quietly, and then looked at them with another easy smile. “Keep on holding his hand, boy. He’ll just fall that much farther when he finally slips.”

Sorey began to object, but he found his jaw clenched tight and the words died as a hum in his throat. Mikleo didn’t relent; it was the first time he’d forced control like this, but Sorey trusted his judgment. He stayed quiet.

Symonne disappeared in her usual flicker of warped light -- or the illusion of her did, rather; Sorey now suspected the real one hadn’t shown herself since they were first captured. A glance over their shoulder confirmed that the hellions were gone as well, either fled or taken while the boys were distracted. Going by their shaken senses, they were alone.

When the two of them separated, Sorey fell hard to his knees. The jolt sent fresh pain through his right arm and he growled, eyes shut tight as his head went light again. He was exhausted to the point of feeling sick -- partly from his injuries, partly from the emotions that continued to twist knots in his stomach and press sharply on the backs of his eyes. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to scream or cry or just lie down under the crushing weight of it all and do nothing.

He was struggling to control his panting when he felt a hand on his other arm, followed shortly by the familiar warmth of a healing arte. He tried to twitch away. “I’m fine,” he muttered gruffly. “Heal yourself.” When Mikleo ignored him, Sorey’s tone grew sharp. “Mikleo, don’t--”

“You’re my vessel, remember?” he interrupted coolly. “I felt what you did just now. Are you really planning on fighting your way out of here with your shoulder like that?”

Sorey’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. He just stayed where he was, staring at the floor as Mikleo moved onto his hand, and then his ribs, sealing fractures and knitting skin back together without a word. He covered Sorey’s eyes with his palm, healing the worst of the cuts and bruises on his face, and for a moment Sorey allowed himself to take comfort in the cool darkness of that touch.

Then it was gone and Mikleo sounded grim: “Artes can’t fix your shoulder. Come on.” Sorey silently obeyed, sitting back on his legs as Mikleo moved onto one knee beside him. One hand was placed in the middle of his back, the other gingerly on the front of his shoulder. “Get ready.”

“Mm.”

Mikleo was fast and efficient: he slammed the heel of his hand into Sorey’s shoulder with purposeful strength, inciting a sickening _click_ as fresh agony rippled up and down his torso. Sorey was partially successful in choking back his cry, but there was no stopping the impulse to double over as he rode out the pain. Somehow, Mikleo was already there for him, slipping around in front of him to catch Sorey’s head against his shoulder. Too tired and sore and focused on not vomiting to refrain, Sorey gave in entirely and collapsed against his friend with a quiet groan.

Mikleo accepted the weight, keeping his left leg aside to sit down proper and helping Sorey down to the ground. “Gather your strength,” Mikleo advised quietly. “We have time.”

With his cheek on Mikleo’s knee, Sorey closed his eyes and breathed slowly, in and out, as the fire in his shoulder dimmed gradually to something closer to needles. He was glad, at least, when he sensed more seraphic artes, this time not directed at himself.

Neither of them said anything for several minutes. Between their slowing breaths, there was only the sound of Sorey’s heartbeat in his ears and the occasional, subtle shift of Mikleo’s clothes. Sorey tensed each time he thought he heard a noise in the distance; the fifth time this happened, Mikleo silently placed a hand on his hair. The unspoken reassurance worked, mostly, and Sorey forced himself to tune out his surroundings and relax. Mikleo returned to healing himself.

Minutes later, Sorey finally spoke up. “Thanks.” The vagueness, he hoped, implied that the gratitude wasn’t just for one thing, but all of it.

“I’m just glad you know your limits,” Mikleo replied.

Sorey hummed, but discontentedly. After another pause, he began grimly, “Mikleo… what all did they--”

“It doesn’t matter.” It wasn’t a harsh response, but it was firm, brooking no argument. “We can’t change what’s done.”

Sorey knew he was right, but it still didn’t sit well with him. All the same, he wasn’t going to try to force Mikleo to talk about anything he didn’t want to. “Right…” Curling in on himself a little, Sorey dug his fingers into his arms until they ached.

How long had it been? It felt like a couple days at least, although it may have been less than that. Being shut away in the dark made time hard to track. What were the others doing? Looking for them? Where would they even start?

Sorey sighed quietly, thinking back over the events for what felt like the thousandth time. There had been rumors buzzing in Lastonbell, stories of animal attacks and strange storms to the north. Sorey’s group set out to investigate, certain and unsurprised when it led to a spot of concentrated malevolence. What was more, they’d discovered another crucible at the center of it, this time permitting only Mikleo and himself to enter.

He opened his eyes, staring at the far wall but not really seeing it. Everything after that had happened so fast. There were no hellions in sight despite the atmosphere, the first sign of warning, but the two of them had pushed on. Neither of them noticed the strange emblem in the floor until it flashed, and when the blinding light had cleared, they were somewhere else. Somewhere with a lot of hellions, strong ones, with wave after wave wearing them down. Sorey had noticed Symonne’s domain, but too late.

He and Mikleo were separated. For a long time Sorey was left in silence, the lack of knowledge more nerve-wracking than anything else. Then there were more hellions to fight, and fight he had, on and off, hardly daring to sleep lest he be caught off guard. Without Edna, the stone walls might as well have been made of steel. Without Zaveid, the iron bars were a chasm between himself and freedom. Without Lailah…

Somehow her absence had been felt the most. Sorey could hardly fathom being on this journey without her guidance, as vague and puzzling as it sometimes was, and he admittedly felt even more lost without her.

And without Mikleo, Sorey had been worried sick. They were too far apart for Sorey to call him back to him, but not so far that he couldn’t sense him. He could tell when Mikleo was fighting, and that made the silence so much worse.

He broke away from his memories and back into the present, back to the stale air and darkness, the deep throbbing in his shoulder and weight in his gut. Physically he was miserable, but with Mikleo’s very real presence and the lack of immediate danger, he felt the most reassured and safest that he had since ending up here. A whole spectrum of negative emotions gnawed at him, and likely would for a while, but he had the comfort of being together again.

Not that it had done Mikleo any favors.

After some time Sorey realized Mikleo had fallen still as well, either resting or done healing or both. The fact that neither of them were rushing to leave spoke volumes about how physically able they currently felt. Sorey used the time to think, however -- on what had passed, but mostly on what lay ahead.

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about fighting our way out,” he murmured finally, thoughtfully.

“Hm?”

“He’s not trying to kill us. At least…” _Not me._ He carefully rolled over to look up at Mikleo. His face was still smeared with dried blood in places and his fair skin made even the lightest of bruises obvious and ugly, but he had healed the worst of them. His left eye was bloodshot and the red stripes on his throat had deepened to grey-purple shadows, although he’d pulled his collar high enough to hide the burns. It was hard to look at him, especially when Sorey blamed himself for every blemish, but he didn’t turn away. “I think killing us now would make all of this pointless.” He was certain Heldalf meant for him to dwell on what had happened. Killing them would have been easy in comparison.

Sorey sat up slowly, gingerly testing his shoulder. As sore as he was, at least toting Mikleo as his vessel wouldn’t take any extra effort. “Still, just… stay inside until we’re out of here, okay? I don’t want to take any chances.”

“And let you limp out of here without anyone watching your back?” Despite his state, Mikleo’s usual level of skepticism was unmarred.

Sorey met it with a flat tone of his own. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

_“Sorey.”_

“This is about me, alright?” Sorey snapped. He rounded on Mikleo with a glare that wasn’t meant for him. “This is _all_ about me. Being kept that close to each other wasn’t a coincidence--”

“Sorey--”

“This domain’s strong enough to weaken you when you’re too far from me.” Even in his anger, Sorey’s words came out matter-of-fact as he finally gave voice to the thoughts that had threatened to drive him mad over the last few days or hours or whatever it had been. “But as long as I was close enough, you couldn’t--” His voice caught in his throat as he turned away, but he exhaled sharply and forced himself to keep talking. “You couldn’t turn -- into a hellion, or a…” His fingernails dug harshly into his palms, enough to hurt even through his gloves.

_And it was close enough for me to tell when you were in pain._

_And to remind you that I was close, but powerless to do anything--_

“Sorey.” This interjection was gentle, unlike the others. Reluctantly, Sorey turned again to face him -- and was greeted with a sharp, backhanded slap to his face. It wasn’t that strong, but the sheer shock of it nearly knocked him over regardless. He only stared, wide-eyed and confused, as Mikleo faced him with a glaring frown.

“We both know why he did this,” he said sternly. “And he failed. Dwelling on it any more than we have to won’t solve anything. You realized it, too, right? It’s what he wants.”

“...Y-Yeah. I know.”

“Then act like it and stop moping.” Mikleo began climbing to his feet. “Come on. We need to get back to the others.”

Sorey followed suit. He was still sore in more places than he could count, but he could move, and fight if need be. He wasn’t too worried -- until Mikleo stumbled, his expression pained as he quickly moved to take his weight off his leg. “Mikleo--”

“It’s fine,” he countered. He accepted the arm that Sorey offered, at least, using it to regain his balance. “You know how artes work. It’ll still be sensitive for a while.”

Sorey frowned and nodded. “Come on, then. I’ll carry you.”

“No. If something does attack, we’ll be vulnerable.”

“Then you should get inside--”

“Just give me your shoulder. It’s easier than carrying me, and I can react faster if I need to.”

Sorey made an impatient noise, but it was clear Mikleo wouldn’t be swayed. “...Fine. But tell me if you need to take a break.”

“Right.” Surprisingly, the response lacked any sarcasm.

With Mikleo limping along beside him, Sorey led the two of them up the staircase and out of the dungeon. He wasn’t surprised when the corridor outside appeared to be empty. He headed left, away from the room where he’d been kept, in hopes that the exit lay in the opposite direction. As they went, he silently noted that the architecture resembled the previous crucibles to a T. Same design, same era, and essentially the same purpose. He tried not to dwell on those thoughts, but with Mikleo’s struggling weight at his side, the sound of his quiet, harsh breathing, and the heavy smell of his blood, it was difficult to think about anything else.

* * *

It was an effective strategy.

The journey through the crucible and their return would later be a blur in Mikleo’s memory, but he would remember that thought bouncing around in his aching head. With nothing to focus on in the silence but suppressing his pain, he turned his attention inward, to his thoughts, where logical thinking was a small but effective distraction.

The purpose of this set-up in hindsight was so glaringly obvious that he was annoyed he hadn’t realized it sooner. Wear Sorey down -- worry him, exhaust him, hurt him, push him towards his pain threshold -- and then force him to acknowledge weakness, helplessness, by hurting Mikleo in front of him. Pain, worry, anger, regret, sadness, guilt, despair. The building blocks of malevolence.

Separating the two of them, choking them on this domain -- Mikleo had thought it was all aimed at himself, a means of ripping him from his vessel and letting the consequences run their course, and then leaving Sorey with the grisly aftermath.

As far as Sorey’s state of mind was concerned, what had actually happened was probably worse.

The train of thought was becoming difficult to hold, as were any thoughts, period. Despite how well Mikleo had kept it together before, and his stubborn insistence on not being carried, his pride and adrenaline were running thin. Even with his wounds closed -- superficially, as he had put most of his remaining energy into healing Sorey and left little for himself -- he hurt everywhere, inside and out. There was no healing to be done for exhaustion, or loss of breath, and each step was slower, heavier, and more difficult. His head was ringing again, his vision blurring and dotted with lights.

He only vaguely recalled returning to the arena, reactivating the emblem, and dropping (painfully) to the floor as they were returned to the original crucible. The exit was in sight, but Mikleo’s resilience was at its limit. Sorey wasn’t able to completely prop him up, not with his shoulder still as pained as it was, so only his good arm around Mikleo’s middle, and Mikleo clutching the back of his mantle, had brought them this far. When Mikleo’s strength finally gave, there was little to stop him from collapsing on the spot.

“Mikleo! Hey--!” Sorey managed to slow his descent, but the dead weight nearly tipped him over. He slipped a hand under Mikleo’s head to keep him elevated, which might have been the only thing preserving what little consciousness the seraph had left. “Hey -- c’mon, we’re almost there.” Sorey gave him a tired, shaky smile. “You proved your point, tough guy. Just get inside already.”

There was no point in arguing. For a cloudy moment Mikleo wasn’t sure if he would be able to do it now -- it took energy, like anything else -- but after a few seconds he found the will, and then the strength. In the space of a heartbeat the cold stone under his back disappeared, the malevolence sitting on his chest grew a little lighter, and he was comforted by the oddly familiar space inside his vessel. The pain of his wounds and the chill in the air still clung to his bones, but he could rest now.

He felt Sorey sag with a quiet sigh, maybe of relief, and was vaguely aware of him climbing to his feet again. Mikleo remembered the slow climb up the stairs, and then emerging into blinding sunshine without opposition. He remembered the rest of the party gathering around them in concern, voices and anxious faces and words that were spoken but he didn’t know what was said. He tried to emerge, but his strength was utterly spent. Consciousness was becoming harder and harder to grasp and finally it all went dark.

He awoke briefly, much later judging by the color of sunset. He was still inside Sorey -- and too tired, even, to feel annoyed by that realization, as sleeping inside him was something he avoided whenever possible; it just felt _weird_ and he didn’t like it. They were being carried on Zaveid’s back, it seemed, since Sorey was out cold.

In spite of himself, Mikleo didn’t leave. Weird or not, he settled back down and surrendered again to the exhaustion clawing at him.

* * *

The first thing Sorey noticed upon waking was that Mikleo was gone.

It registered before his aches and pains, the soft bed underneath him, or the familiar scent of his house. He noticed it before he even opened his eyes, his chest tightening when he realized his mind was vacant except for his own thoughts.

“Mikleo,” he slurred, his voice as heavy with sleep as the rest of him. He pushed himself up, blinking in the low light and only mildly surprised to find himself in his room in Elysia. More importantly, he was alone. Every thought, every question was second in priority. He dragged himself out of bed, noting firstly that he felt a lot better, although several aches still remained, and secondly that he’d been changed into fresh clothes. He half-stumbled up the couple steps and across the room, speeding up as his blood got pumping and his mind became more lucid. He yanked open the front door and hurried outside -- and ran smack into the back of Rose, who was sitting on the stairs.

He lost his balance and nearly fell on top of her, but she was faster and caught the edge of his shirt as she whirled around, steadying him with a quick jerk. “Whoa! Sorey, you’re awake!”

“Where’s Mikleo?”

Her relieved look faded as she noted either his expression or his tone, but it was swiftly replaced with another, more comforting smile. “He’s fine. Resting up at his place.”

Sorey glanced out across the familiar setting. Looking the same as it always had, as if untouched by time in the last few months, Elysia was quiet and peaceful. Between his relief about both Mikleo and being home, it took him a moment to realize Rose had spoken again.

“Sorry -- what?”

“I asked how you’re feeling,” she said patiently. “You passed out before you could give us a damage report, remember? So yeah, trying to figure out how to move you without killing you was fun.”

“Sorry,” he repeated. “But… why Elysia? This is a long way off from where we were, isn’t it?”

“Lailah’s idea. She said you two would probably recover better in a really strong domain.”

“I see.” Even as he listened, Sorey kept casting glances across the hillside at Mikleo’s house.

Rose sighed, but it was a good-natured sound. “Well, go ahead and check on him. I need to round everyone up, anyway, so you only have to tell your story once. Take your time, though.”

“Thanks, Rose.” He started to leave, but then paused after a couple steps. “Hey… I’d… rather explain things to our group. _Just_ our group.” He looked over his shoulder. “I don’t… think Gramps and the others need to know the details.”

She gave him an airy salute. “Aye-aye, Captain. My lips are sealed.”

He cast her a grim but grateful smile, and then continued briskly on his way.

Mikleo’s door was unlocked, as the doors in Elysia always were, and Sorey didn’t knock before entering. The two of them had never had reason to.

Mikleo was awake, sitting up in bed with the covers drawn up to his waist. He had also been cleaned and changed, although his eyes still looked tired and his hair was unkempt. He had a book open on his lap, but his head was tilted back with his distracted gaze on the ceiling in thought. As Sorey closed the door behind him, he felt Mikleo’s attention shift, and he turned back around to find his friend watching him with an unreadable expression.

For a moment they exchanged impassive stares, saying nothing. Sorey was the first to look away, dropping his gaze and hesitating a few seconds more before starting across the room.

“If you came here to apologize, you can turn around and leave.”

Sorey stopped where he was. For another long moment he could only stand there, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as he searched for words. Finally, with a sad smile, he replied softly, “You know, I was ready for you to be mad at me… But you’re mad for the wrong reasons.”

Mikleo sighed shortly. “I used to think living in a world as black-and-white as yours must be pretty simple and easy. But now it just sounds depressing.” He tilted his head forward as he leveled his gaze at Sorey, everything about his expression and posture as condescending as he could make them. “There’s nothing for me to be mad about.”

“But--”

_“Stop.”_ More than just annoyance flared in Mikleo’s tone now. Sorey detected the heat of real anger, something even he had only witnessed a few times in his life. “If you really think you bear any responsibility for what happened, then it goes both ways. I should have been able to help you.” Mikleo broke away from their staredown, frowning. “But I wasn’t strong enough.”

“H-Hey -- that’s not…”

“What?” Mikleo challenged. “It’s not my responsibility? Only the Shepherd is allowed to protect others? Only the Shepherd can feel guilty?”

“Mikleo…”

“What do you think a Sub Lord _is_ , Sorey?” His voice was rising. “We take the same risks, fight the same battles, even share a body -- but when the going gets tough, I suddenly have no say? Why do you think so little of me?” he demanded.

_“I don’t,”_ Sorey protested defensively. “It’s -- not like that. I’m just…”

“Do you remember what you told Edna?” Mikleo asked suddenly. “You said seraphim aren’t tools to be used, and that you shouldn’t take our powers for granted.” Sorey winced. “You’re hung up on this whole thing for one of two reasons: either you’re so big-headed about your own importance that you think the world revolves around you, or you think I’m just another face in the crowd to be protected, instead of your ally. Either way, it sure sounds like you’re taking me for granted, doesn’t it?” he asked, heavy on the sarcasm.

“No, I…” The argument died before Sorey could even come up with it.

“Then what would you call it? We made that pact as _equals_ , not so I could lend you my power while you keep me in your shadow--”

“It’s not like that!” Sorey repeated, also rising in volume. “You just shouldn’t have to suffer for my sake!”

“This journey is about more than just you, Sorey! That’s what I’m saying! Heldalf would’ve done the same no matter who was with you, so stop trying to make this so personal!”

“How is watching my best friend get tortured in front of me _not personal?_ ” Sorey was yelling now, his voice shaking as badly as his balled fists. “This isn’t about Shepherds or Sub Lords or any of that! Someone I care about was hurt, all for the purpose of trying to get to me! That’s as personal as it _gets_ , Mikleo, and I--!” He stopped, dropping his head with a quiet hiss. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but not much steadier. “And I don’t… _care_ about what he would or wouldn’t have done to someone else. This time, it was you. And no matter what you say, or how you feel... I’m sorry.” Closing his eyes, he wasn’t surprised to hear his voice break. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He didn’t look up. He didn’t move, but just stared at the floor and wished for the thousandth, millionth time that they didn’t have to talk about this, that the whole mess had never happened, that he had made some choice somewhere along the way to prevent it, even if he couldn’t fathom what he could have afforded to do differently.

“I understand how you feel,” said Mikleo at length. His irritation was gone. He sounded tired, but not like the late-night tired that Sorey was used to hearing. It didn’t even sound like typical post-battle fatigue. It was a bone-deep exhaustion, something stretched thin and worn out, broken and pieced back together. How Mikleo had been concealing it so well up to now, he had no idea. “But if you apologize, you’re saying that you personally could have done something to prevent it. We both know that’s not true. Not unless you regret becoming a Shepherd. But if you would go back and change that…”

“No.” That much, at least, was said with confidence. “I’ve -- we’ve come too far for me to say that everything we did was a mistake.”

“Good,” said Mikleo brusquely. “Now you know exactly how I feel.” Sorey raised his head, puzzled, as Mikleo steadfastly met his gaze again. “I didn’t take those beatings lying down just so you could brush it off as a mistake. I _know_ you don’t mean it that way,” he added as Sorey opened his mouth, “but you’re trying to pin this all on yourself, and when you do that you remove my free will from the equation. I don’t deny that I took a hit for you, Sorey, but don’t trivialize it. Give me more respect than that.”

Another long pause followed. Mikleo, having said his piece, was content to stare absently at the closest wall and say nothing else. Sorey watched him openly, thinking over his words, the last couple days, and a lot of things, his expression thoughtful at times and more solemn at others.

Finally, he broke the silence and approached, taking a seat at the foot of the bed with a loud sigh. He leaned back on one hand and turned his face toward the ceiling. “You always know just what to say, don’t you.”

“Duh. You’re just now figuring that out?”

Sorey glanced over, smiling crookedly even before he saw Mikleo’s smirk. He sighed again, this time through his nose. “Well, turns out I’m still learning a lot of things, so… maybe.” After a few more beats he inquired, “Can I at least apologize for being an idiot?”

Mikleo gave an amused grunt. “As long as you don’t make a habit out of it. You’d be apologizing daily.”

“ _Ouch,_ man.”

The silence this time was more like their usual: casual and without the need to fill it with absent words.

“How’s your shoulder?” Mikleo inquired a couple minutes later.

“Eh... been better, been worse.” Sorey carefully rotated it again, making a face when he stretched it over his head. “I’ll take it easy for a couple days.” If necessary, he would just rely more heavily on artes in battle, since his left arm was fine. “Where’d you learn to treat something like that without artes?”

“Marlind has some interesting books on medicine. I had time, so I concentrated on what I figured might be relevant at some point.”

Sorey chuckled. “Mikleo resorting to barbaric human practices? I’m shocked.”

“More knowledge never hurts. And I knew it was just a matter of time before you broke in a way I couldn’t put back together.”

After their talk just now, Sorey was pretty sure Mikleo was the one who could always piece him together without fail, inside or out. He kept the thought to himself. “How’s your…” He trailed off, uncertain which injury to ask about. They had all looked painful; even now, there was a thin line of pink along Mikleo’s cheekbone, and the shadows under his chin were a little too dark given the lighting in the room. Without his collar hiding his throat, the scars of burnt and peeling skin were a sharp, troubling contrast to the rest of him.

“Healing,” Mikleo answered, saving him the trouble. “All of those injuries were superficial. They weren’t meant to cripple.”

_They were meant to hurt,_ Sorey surmised silently. His little bit of humor faded and he frowned again, lightly.

“What are you thinking, Sorey?”

He debated brushing off the question -- but if he couldn’t be honest here, with Mikleo, then he would never be with anyone, and those thoughts would continue to eat at him. “...I’m afraid of what this means,” Sorey admitted, very quietly. “If he set all that up… what else will he do? Who else will he hurt?”

That question hung in the air as neither boy looked at the other. Mikleo’s fingers picked absently at a loose thread in his quilt. “Maybe anything,” he mused grimly. “And probably anyone.” Sorey bit the inside of his cheek. “But there’s no sense dwelling on it. We still need to push forward. Sometimes reacting is all we can do.”

“Will that be enough?” Sorey wondered. It was spoken partly if not mostly to himself. Had he truly learned anything from this? If it happened again, would he be able to do anything differently, stop anything worse from happening? Or was it simply part of the Shepherd’s burden, a pain he would have to constantly run the risk of facing and accepting?

“I don’t know,” Mikleo murmured. He made a quiet sound, something between a hum and a sigh. “I know it’s easier said than done, Sorey. I can’t tell you how to feel, or how not to feel. But the sooner you stop assuming responsibility for every little thing, the better off we’ll all be.”

“You’re right.” Try as he might, Sorey couldn’t sound as convinced as he wanted to. “It’s just…”

“...That you’re the Shepherd,” Mikleo finished for him. “And each of us is here because of some choice you made at some point, right?”

Slowly, Sorey nodded. “Yeah. Logically, I know it’s not that simple, but…”

“But you’re a bleeding heart.” Mikleo’s tone wasn’t sarcastic -- on the contrary, it sounded surprisingly warm, coming from him. His smirk was a gentle one, more fond than condescending. “That in itself isn’t a weakness, I don’t think. Hurting for others, and because of others… too much of it can lead to malevolence, true. But being totally apathetic isn’t good, either.” He crossed his arms over his stomach, shifting his weight a little. “Your bonds are important, but you need to remember that you’re not solely responsible for any of us. We’re all here because we choose to be.”

“Mm. I guess… the sense of responsibility goes both ways, huh.”

“It does. And we’re all here to help you carry it. Don’t forget that.”

“Right…” Sorey smiled over at him, even if it was a tired expression. “Sorry to bother you with this. You should be resting.”

“So should you.”

Nodding, Sorey moved to stand -- but then hesitated as he rethought it, and instead lay backwards to stretch out along the bottom of the bed, arms under his head. “...Just in case you need anything,” he reasoned. It was something they’d often done as kids: when one fell ill with a cold or a cough that confined him to bed, the other would hang around to keep him company during the day and sleep at the bottom to watch over him at night. They would usually end up catching whatever the other had, anyway, but the rest of their family had given up on trying to keep them separate, especially after Sorey raised the bar by sneaking in through the window one time.

“Heh.” A moment later a pillow landed on Sorey’s face. “I’m not sick, so at least take that,” Mikleo offered.

Sorey rolled onto his side, facing the far wall, as Mikleo also settled down to rest. The silence became long and deep enough that it would have been easy to assume Mikleo had fallen asleep, but whether as Shepherd and Sub Lord, vessel and seraph, or just best friends and family who knew each other too well, Sorey could tell, somehow, that he was still awake some half hour later. “...Mikleo.”

“Hm.”

“Thanks.”

Mikleo shifted to glance down at him. “For what?”

“For looking out for me. Like you always do.”

A pause -- and then another shift, this one more aggressive as Mikleo turned away and pulled his blanket up with a small huff. “Go to sleep,” he muttered grumpily.

Sorey’s laugh was a silent one as he pulled his knees up and relaxed. The familiarity of all this was almost strange, ironically, after everything they’d been through in the last few months. Comforting, but strange -- and a little different, somehow. Like an old, favorite shirt that didn’t fit as well as he remembered, or the sudden revelation that he had grown tall enough to see over the topmost shelf in his bookcase. He didn’t feel out-of-place here in Elysia -- he never would, he was certain; this would always be his home -- but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he might have changed more than he had realized since the last time he was here.

_For better or worse?_ he couldn’t help thinking.

He wondered if Mikleo felt the same and opened his mouth to ask as much -- but then closed it again just as quickly. They could talk about it later. If Mikleo did relate, that would be a relief; if he didn’t… well, he would probably have something to say on that, too, something draped with sarcasm to hide his genuine concern like always.

Sorey dismissed the last of those thoughts and fell asleep not long after -- and slept much better and more peacefully than he would have thought possible just a few hours ago.


End file.
